Travel Journal:

            Elementary School in Japan was a surreal event after spending so much time in the quaint village of non responsive high school students.  I opened Pandora’s Box the minute I walked through the door in the morning.  “Damn,” I thought, “this is going to be a long day.”  To begin with, the building smelled of child. A fragrance that only one can describe as a musty old fart mixed with roses and leftover bacon and eggs.  I walked up and found the teacher’s room, and tried to introduce myself as best as possible.  All the teachers sat down, and in rapid fire Japanese, went over the lesson plan for the day.  I could make out a few words here and there like “game” and “singing”, but that was about it.  But I nodded my head, made some understanding motions and noises, and said “Wakarimashita” which means I understand.  Well, I did anything but wakarimashita. 

            I started out on literally the wrong foot.  Dammit if I didn’t forget to bring my inside shoes from my high school.  I was condemned to wear these cheap blue plastic slippers that are around a size 7.  Too bad my foot is a size 11.  They have absolutely no support whatsoever, and with the temperatures dropping, I think they actually make my feet colder somehow.  Maybe it’s due to constriction, because the first half of my foot is wedged in like a sardine in a tin can, while the rest of my heel flails around outside, dragging on the cold hard floor.  Sometimes it makes you wonder.  I mean, if image is so important in Japan, why would you wear a suit and tie to someplace, and then put on really cheesy plastic slippers that usually clash with your ensemble.  I think it drives the foreign women crazier than the guys, but I see their gripe.  But it does have its up side as well.  There is nothing more priceless than seeing you vice principal in plastic shoes and an bright technicolor apron serving out food for the office.   

            The day had just started a bit kooky, but it was about to get a lot weirder.  In the meantime though, the first few classes went well.  Most of the teachers had some good things planned, and we played games involving numbers and singing.  The kids even asked me questions.  Some were in English, but most were in Japanese translated by the teacher.  I did like the personality change.  The kids were much more outgoing and on the ball than my high school students.  I was liking this.  And so classes went on through the morning easily.  I had a break for a half hour, and then it was time to prepare for lunch.  This is when things got weird, for me anyway.

            I walked down the hall to wash my hands when my eyes stopped on the little worker in front of me.  But this was not an adult little person that had been relegated to work some remedial job.  This was a student that I had just sang a song with the lesson before; dawning a new outfit, she was now dressed in a surgeon’s outfit ready for triage.  Only her patient was lunch.  She was sporting a little white gown with freshly washed hands, a flu mask, and a hair cap.  She looked up at me like it was just a regular Tuesday, and I could see her smile behind the mask as her cheeks rose.  I started to think back about some of the “good times” I had back in high school and college.  Maybe I had too good of a time and this was a direct result.  I honestly rubbed my eyes to vanquish the image, but when I re-opened them, there she was, busily prepping the pot for the fresh soup de jour.

            I started to laugh.  And I mean that uncontrollable laugh where you know you are going loopy and it just doesn’t matter anymore.  I walked down to the door where I was to have lunch and peeped in through the window.  What did my eyes find but a busy cluster or tiny umpaloompas (huh, the spell check didn’t have that word in the dictionary) preparing fluffy marshmallow treats and candy cane gumdrops that go on producing flavor forever (not really).  But there they were, spooning out rations of rice, soup, and pieces of meat to all.  And guess what?  They were all dressed in little triage outfits as well.  I didn’t really know what to do, so I got out my camera and started snapping photos of this insanity.  You may say, “Don’t hurt their feelings.  They may think you are making fun of them.”  Not even the case.  They all smiled and flashed the ever present peace sign that accompanies every Japanese person in a photo.  They loved it, and so did I. 

            What else could I do except sit down in my little chair (random thought…are Japanese kid’s chairs even smaller than regular kid’s chairs?  I just don’t know.) with knees protruding into my chest and a smile plastered on my face.  The food was served, but before we could dig in, one student led in saying, “Ittadakkimasu,” which means, “I humbly partake.”  Now that grace was over, we began partaking.  The food wasn’t all that bad.  I mean, how bad can you muff up rice?  The soup was tasty too, but I was about half way through when it got a little chunkier.  I heard some mild coughing over to my left and looked up.  The little girl next to me was coughing and had a sad look on her face.  “Uh oh,” I thought.  And then it came.  She just opened her mouth and the doctor’s medicine came right back out.  Ah, the smell of fresh vomit mixed with bits of chicken liver, coupled with miso soup, and just a splash of child was magic to my palate.  I held down the food in my stomach the best I could, and I am sad to say that my lunch was over at that point. 

            The teacher came over and profusely apologized.  I said that it was no problem, these things happen.  I was more impressed with the children’s reactions.  The best part of the day was observing them take concern and care of their fellow classmate.  I was moved by all of them.  There was no laughter or mocking; only worried little doctors in uniforms thinking of a remedy for their patient.  They kept asking, “Dai-jo-bu?” which means, “Are you okay?”  There was such empathy in their voices, and some of the kids came over and rubber her back to comfort our wounded soldier.  It was a really touching moment. 

            Yes, we had a casualty, but that would not stop us from victory.  As our little “man down” sulkily and sickly walked off to the nurse’s office, the army of little hands swiftly broke down camp and prepared it for afternoon lessons.  The reward for such effort was in the form of recess.  Play is so vital to life, and I found myself at 29 years of age excited to go play after “lunchtime.”  I walked to the shoe changing area and looked at my fellow compadre.  At a spry 8 years old and with a twinkle in his eye, we looked at each other and knew this was the best time of the day.  Our minds were in sync, and our feelings surpassed the boundary of languages.  We peered outside, and there lay our goal.  A soccer ball that lay yet unclaimed.  I quickly looked around for Mrs. Gillern and the other aids so as to not get into trouble for crossing the street alone.  It slowly hit me that I was, “The Man,” and I could cross the street on my own.

            Shabam!  You could hear the crack of lighting detonate from the sudden explosion of my body being thrust forward at almost light speed as I made my way for the ball.  I was claiming it as mine, and that was final.  I looked over my shoulder in the cloud of dust that I had stirred up and laughed.  I left that kid in the dust.  I never even got his name.  Who cares, because he never even had a chance.  As I claimed my prize, I showed off my footy skills as the others raced to catch up.  As more joined up, we determined teams and started to play. The first half went nil nil, but the tide started to turn as I got more involved.  The game’s momentum really changed when I decided to put the hammer down and throw in a few body checks.  Gloves and mittens were flying here and there.  They just couldn’t take the full force of my grit and determination.  I plowed through them and scored the only goal of the day.  Damn, I was that good.  I decided to hang low for a few more minutes, and just as I was going to hit the gas one more time, the bell rang and it was time to go in.  I tell you, I walked on that field an underdog, and I left a champion.

            After recess every student had a job.  I went with one young fellow who just talked and talked in Japanese, stopping occasionally to see if I was still listening.  Our important job was to walk around the school grounds and look for any trash that had been left out in the fields.  We picked up a few sticks that looked suspicious, a rock here and there, but nothing of consequence.  We did come across some dried dog poo, but we decided to leave in the hands of nature.  As we came back to our starting point, the students filed into class and my day was done.  I bowed to my little friend, said my goodbyes, and made off for home.  It was a great day of fun, but I was taxed from all the little tikes.  They really do take so much of your energy it is amazing.  I am scheduled to go there in another month, so I will keep you posted on how that goes.  Until then, I will relish the smell of normalcy at my high school.